Poetry of the Non-Prose Kind


Cintia Santana

Adam is dreaming of a bomb      atom become A-bomb       so many atoms in this @

Shark Fin

Cintia Santana

Like a black wing angled out
     of water, it rose, lured

by the shadow of our boat.
     Circled us—no seal—turned

north. I loved a banker then.
     The boat was his. Perhaps

the water, too, its small, tin
     mirrors. I’d never known the traps

of wealth before: the rigging
     of its baits, its blue-barbed hooks.

I, too, have circled, mistaking
     metal for a meal, duped

by instinct. Wide, the sea. The oar:
     the heart’s dark sail, its hunger.


Skip Fox

Interlocking plains of constitutions, verdant, mortal, birth
a send-up of absurd proportions skimming the margins
of oblivion, death-rate in its wake illuminating the awe-
struck mind fresh from the ripeness of non-existence, or is it
simply there?, alive, awake as cardinals climb into their hot
chambers of insistence to clash in vocables over the shining
stage for contention of place like a glistening word on nature’s
page, diamond lost in a world of diamonds as light strikes
water, shining upward from where I sit before its levitation,
the dilation of what is within that which was thought to have 
been all along, as an advancing edge, ever-changing nature
of question, today the northeast corner lost in a warren of green,
a hut bound to water-roots hanging blindly down into pond’s
warm stillness, feather soft in mind and touch, yet immense,
heavy as a drowned heifer, my shoulders sore from dragging mats
to shore, wrestling bio-mass from the heart of that which pours
so fully forth and into all the world, both existence and its un-
doing, as I climb the banks of this bright hole whose glassy
presence, sheer, upcast, encases cicada’s scroll in silver
light, song within the song, It is the mind creates the finite.